


Developing Our Wings

by KRyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post-Season/Series 03 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1932435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KRyn/pseuds/KRyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two 'strangers' meet in a dark alley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Developing Our Wings

*****************************************************************************************************************************************  
 _“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.”_ \--Kurt Vonnegut

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

The first blow caught him totally unprepared, a heavy shove between the shoulder blades that almost sent him to his knees.

The second, a sideways body slam, forced him to the right in an ungainly stumble, ending abruptly in a blinding stab of pain as his right shoulder impacted the unyielding alley wall.

Before he could draw a breath or voice a cry of protest, he was spun a quarter turn and pushed backwards. The rough brick scraped the skin on his back through the protective layers of his coat and shirt as a body crowded against him. A forearm pressed against his throat, forcing his chin up and his neck to turn further than its fused vertebrae wanted to allow. A fresh bright flash of agony reduced time to fragments of sensation.

Sour gust of breath.

A whispered threat.

Glint of light off something metal, flashing dangerously close to his left eye.

Merciless hands invading his personal space, probing his pockets.

Harsh curses.

The pressure against his throat suddenly gone.

A sharp jab to his stomach doubled him over. The impact of something heavy to his back dropped him the rest of the way to the ground. Wavering on scraped hands and bruised knees, he nearly collapsed face-first on the garbage-strewn pavement as his computer bag was jerked from his left shoulder. Dazed, barely managing to support his weight on his forearms, he was only peripherally conscious of retreating footsteps. 

Panting harshly, he stayed frozen in place until trembling muscles and aching back protested the strain. Lips pressed firmly, he drew in a deep breath through his nose, trying to pull himself together. The reek of garbage that filled his nostrils and choked his throat made him want to retch. He shook his head sharply, clenched his teeth and cautiously tried again, a shallower pull of air this time. Held it, released it. Then another. Air in, hold, air out. Focusing on the mechanics of filling his lungs helped him ignore the worst of the smell. His racing heartbeat started to slow.

When he had regained enough equilibrium, he let his weight shift so that he ended up in what was more or less an upright seated position. His wire rim glasses hung askew, barely hooked over one ear. He pulled them off and did his best to straighten the frames with shaky hands. Slipping them on, the world slid into focus again, but the view didn't improve much. 

The assault had carried him deeper into the alley than he'd realized. He was a good 30 feet from the opening to the street; the illumination from the nearest streetlight barely reached a few feet beyond him. To his right, the narrow passage was drenched in shadow. The broken bottles and garbage littering the ground had looked better out of focus. 

It took a few more minutes of concentrating on his breathing, ignoring the twinges from his neck and shoulder and the ache in his abdomen, before he moved again. Gingerly, he scooted himself backward until he felt the alley wall behind him. He leaned back against the brick facade, one leg bent, foot pressed hard to the pavement to stabilize him, his bad leg stretched out as straight as he could manage. He wrapped both arms around his middle, pressing against his stomach. 

The man who had been Harold Finch silently cursed himself for a fool. 

How had he forgotten how ill-suited he was to work this part of a Number?

The plan had been simple. The Number was a 57 year old finishing carpenter whose life was falling apart. He'd lost his job and his home. Compounding those issues was a poor choice in lending agents. In an attempt to raise the money to pay off the loan shark who was at the point of taking repayment in blood, the man had turned to robbery--ironically making him _both_ victim and perpetrator. Newspaper reports had chronicled an increase in minor assaults in this neighborhood--two in the very alley Harold was sitting in. Guessing that the man might make a third attempt in the same location, Harold had tucked himself behind a dumpster just down the street from the opening to the alley. 

He hadn't intended to confront the man. The idea had been to watch and wait. If the man made an appearance, Harold would cautiously follow him back to wherever he was staying. Harold would then determine the least risky way to leave an anonymous 'gift'--an envelope filled with $5000 and an unsigned note strongly suggesting the man leave town and start over in his legitimate profession somewhere else.

He'd taken precautions. Been careful. 

Wary of aggravating the nearly healed bullet wound in his right shoulder any further, he reached up with his left hand to gingerly massage the aching muscles and ligaments in his fused neck. 

Obviously not careful enough. 

As he'd hoped, his 'target' had appeared shortly after midnight. The man had moved quickly along the sidewalk across from Harold's position and slipped into the alley without hesitation. Harold had edged out of his hiding place, just enough to keep the alley opening in view. Long tense minutes had passed with no further sign of the Number. It had been nearly closing time for the bars in the area. Harold had begun to wonder if the man was lurking in the shadows waiting for a hapless victim to stroll by, or if he had simply used the alley as a shortcut to another hunting ground. 

The night had been quiet, the noise from traffic on a more active thoroughfare a few blocks away a low, almost comforting rumble. Only a handful of pedestrians had passed Harold's hiding place in the hours he had been there. 

An abruptly silenced cry of alarm and the distinctive sound of breaking glass had Harold moving before he'd even realized it. He'd only hesitated for a second in the mouth of the alley, the risk to his own safety outweighed by the possibility of stopping what sounded like another assault. 

He'd ended up being the victim. 

The memory of that flash of metal which had undoubtedly been a knife made Harold shudder. He'd been lucky. He'd escaped his foolishness relatively unscathed. No stab wounds or additional bullet holes which he would have had to try doctoring himself, since a trip to the ER with reportable injuries was out of the question. He'd been shaken up and still felt like he needed a few more minutes before trying to get to his feet. And he was hurting--he'd be nearly immobile tomorrow without more pain medication than he preferred to take--but otherwise he'd come away with just scrapes and bruises. And wounded pride.

He searched the pocket of his coat where his wallet had been, not surprised when he found it missing. The billfold had contained fifty $100 bills. He'd opted to bring the cash with him, hoping that the opportunity to resolve the situation that night might present itself. In retrospect, not a wise decision. The money was replaceable, although not quite as easily as it had once been, and at least he'd had the foresight to leave his new ID and credit card at home.

Losing his computer bag was more problematic. It had held an older model laptop. The computer didn't have the power of the one hidden in his apartment, but Harold hadn't felt comfortable about venturing out without a keyboard within reach. There was nothing on the machine that could be traced back to him, he'd made sure of that. But if it was recovered and the serial number tracked, it could lead the authorities right to his door. He'd used his new identity when he'd purchased it from a used computer store. He wasn't eager to be questioned as to why he hadn't reported it stolen, or worse where it had been stolen. He had no legitimate business in this part of town. The bag had also contained a few other odds and ends that he'd brought along as part of his precautions. Those would raise some eyebrows if someone knowledgeable enough got their hands on them.

The unexpected 'ting' of glass against metal startled him. The sound had come from his right, where the shadows in the alley were thickest. Harold's pulse started to race as he realized he'd compounded his initial mistakes. By sitting there so long he'd made himself a target for a return visit by his original assailant, or someone else who might see his vulnerable state too good an opportunity to pass up. 

Another sound, the barest scuff of leather across broken concrete. Close. Harold knew he wouldn't make it to his feet before whoever was approaching reached him. He frantically patted the ground, searching on either side of him for something he could use to defend himself, hoping for at least a part of a broken board. He might be able to hold whoever it was at arm's length, although for how long, he had his doubts.

The fingers of his left hand closed around the long neck of a beer bottle. Not what he'd been hoping for, but he'd take what he could get. He started to raise it--

"Are you all right?" rasped a low voice.

Harold froze, the bottle slipping from suddenly numb fingers to thud on the pavement, the remaining liquid inside spilling out in a soft repetitive chug. 

While his poor eyesight had required glasses by the time he'd hit his teens, Harold's hearing had always been exceptional, close to pitch-perfect. Like any ability he had, he'd worked to fine-tune it. Now, even in middle-age, he could identify an object by sound on a first guess, eight times out of ten. With voices that he had heard before, he could identify the speaker almost instantly, even from a fragment of conversation. 

He _knew_ that voice--had heard that soft, gravelly sound in his headset or emanating from the speaker of his phone for three years. Had heard it in every teasing remark in the quiet stillness of the Library when they'd been between Numbers. Had been greeted with exactly that question, with the same amount of grave concern in the tone each time he'd been hurt or rescued from a situation gone sour. 

That voice belonged to a different life. It couldn't be...

Yet the shape of the man who hovered at the edge of the shadows was achingly familiar. Tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a knee length coat, coiled tension in the lean frame, the tilt of the head...

The man stepped fully into the faint illumination cast by the streetlight, two long strides shaping a ghost out of the past. 

Harold's eyes widened in astonishment. A well-used greeting started to tumble from his lips. "Mr. Re--

"Sanders," the man supplied quickly, glancing quickly toward the lit street before turning back to Harold, a tight smile curving his lips as if in apology for cutting him off. "Kyle Sanders. You look like you ran into a little trouble."

The name didn't register. Harold was too focused on the voice that suddenly didn't match up with the familiar face that looked down at him. 

The voice was...wrong. The low rasp of seconds earlier was gone. The new tone was higher, pitched closer to mid-range, colored with a hint of a mid-western accent, the diction slightly more precise.

Harold blinked and managed a nod, his muddled mind trying to sort out the incongruity as the man settled into a crouch next to him, placing a battered black computer bag next to his outstretched leg. The same bag that Harold's assailant had stolen. 

Once again Harold's personal space was invaded, but the touch of the hands that coasted over him now as the man efficiently checked him over was so familiar and reassuring that he allowed it. 

It was John Reese. And yet...it wasn't. 

The voice wasn't the only thing that was different about the man. The hair was longer than John had worn it, a different style. The body language was off, the man's movements casual, not studied. Still fluid, but not with the same grace John had exhibited. 

The high pitched 'whoop whoop' of a squad car siren abruptly pierced the late night quiet. Harold stiffened, his gaze flickering to the end of the alley, suddenly conscious that the situation had taken a potentially more dangerous turn.

The siren 'whooped' again then fell silent. A traffic stop most likely, maybe three blocks away judging from the volume level.

"Can you stand?" 

The bite of urgency coloring the question drew Harold's gaze back to the man at his side. The voice was still wrong, but the eyes...those he knew. 

And then understanding struck, hard and fast, stealing his breath just like the assault he'd experienced earlier. 

This was the man who _had been_ John Reese. 

The man the world now knew as Kyle Sanders. 

Harold's eyes automatically sought the surveillance camera mounted just above a doorway on the building across from the alley. Someone--probably the Number he'd been working--had saved Harold the trouble of disabling it. A quick glance as he'd walked by the device on his way to his chosen hiding place had revealed a spray paint fogged lens and crushed metal casing.

But there were more cameras out there, far too many 'eyes' watching for any unusual or 'deviant' behavior. Too many 'ears' listening. Interest that they couldn't afford to attract to two 'strangers' who had no legitimate reason for being in contact. 

He started to pull away, to warn John off. But the younger man was already shifting position, hands precisely placed to lift him without aggravating his old injuries or worsening any new ones. Harold was suddenly on his feet, trying to find his balance. 

Firm hands steadied him. "Are you sure you're all right?" 

"Yes...yes I'll be fine," Harold gasped, trying to catch his breath. "I just--"

"You seem a little unsettled." 

Harold's computer bag was slipped onto his left shoulder. 

"I--"

"We should get you somewhere you can sit down and regroup."

John already had him moving toward the street, hand on the small of his back, ushering him forward.

"I don't think--

"There's a small diner just around the corner." 

They were only steps from the street. John's hand was at his left elbow now, forward motion relentless. Everything was happening too quickly, Harold's pulse pounding hard and fast in his throat. A diner meant bright lights and people and potentially multiple cameras. They couldn't--

He spun a step away from John, holding up both hands. "Stop, please...just stop!"

John started to reach toward him, then suddenly aborted the motion, letting his hand drop to his side. Retreated a step. 

"All right." 

And there it was again. That graveled half-whisper that was John's alone. Tinged with understanding and a hint of regret.

John took another step backward.

Despite the risk, Harold suddenly couldn't bear to let him just disappear into the shadows. "Wait!" he hissed sharply.

John paused, tense, his gaze fixed on Harold.

Drawing in a deep breath, Harold forced himself toward calm. There had to be a way to make this work, to keep them as safe as they possibly could be given the circumstances. And John, he abruptly realized, had already given him the clues. He reined in 'Harold Finch' and slipped shakily into his own new persona. "Mr....Sanders, is it?"

A moment of hesitation, then a single nod of acknowledgement. 

"I...apologize. My manners are usually better than this." Harold bought a few more seconds to let the tension ease, hiding the slight trembling of his hands as he adjusted his coat and dusted himself off. He started to extend his hand, grimaced at the slightly oozing scrapes and dirt on his palm, and settled for a quick nod instead. "Greg Evans." His new name still felt awkward on his tongue. He hadn't offered it often in the six weeks since he'd acquired it.

John stepped forward to stand closer, becoming 'Kyle' again as he did. Harold spared a thought in appreciation for how easily Reese accomplished the transition, then realized that John was waiting for him to make the next move. Harold took a deep breath and plunged in. 

"You mentioned a diner. A brief rest before I head home would be a good idea. Perhaps...perhaps I could buy you a cup of coffee?"

A wide, pleased smile lit John's face. "I'd like that."

Caught off-guard by the broad grin which was definitely a 'Kyle' affectation, Harold managed a stumbling, "Good...that's...that's good." He patted at his coat pocket, absently checking for his wallet. Stilled. He stifled an annoyed groan and looked sheepishly at John. "I'm sorry, I may need to retract that offer. I seem to be missing--"

John dropped Harold's wallet into his hand. Without even thinking, Harold opened the billfold to check the contents. Then abruptly shut it when he realized that the money was still inside. A large amount of money. 

"Looks like you can afford it," John/Kyle observed blandly. 

Trying not to look like a bird attempting to sooth ruffled feathers, Harold gestured toward the street. "Lead on."

**************************************************************  
The diner was close. Only a block and a half away. Harold tried to ignore the itch at the back of his neck as they walked along the sidewalk together, 'Kyle' just as adept at matching his pace to Harold's as John had been. 

The warning prickle grew even stronger when he caught sight of their destination. The small restaurant looked like it had been plucked out of Edward Hopper's _Nighthawks_ painting--huge open expanses of windows, bright fluorescent lights, a half-dozen patrons seated at the long front counter. 

Harold had hoped to slip in without a fuss, but even as 'Kyle', John's very presence drew attention. The 40-ish waitress behind the counter brightened visibly as Reese pushed the diner's front door inward, hesitated for just a second, then stepped inside, Harold a silent shadow behind him. 

The waitress quickly dried her hands on a towel and hurried through an opening in the long front counter. "Hey, Hon', welcome!" She called out with a wide smile. "Coffee's hot and the pie's fresh."

'Kyle's' answering smile was just as broad, "Sounds, great." He moved a step forward angling to the left to allow the door to close behind Harold. "We'll--"

"Oh my Lord, what happened to you? Are you all right?" The woman gasped, catching sight of Harold, her eyes widening in surprise at his disheveled appearance. "Did you get mugged? I swear we've had at least half-a dozen attacks around here in just the past few weeks. I keep telling the boss that we need more security than one old camera, but does he listen? No. Do you want me call the police? There's no guarantee they'll show up. They've had their hands full, what with the crime rate going up all over town, but--"

"Thank you, but I'm fine," Harold quickly dissembled, pasting a slightly mortified expression on his face. "Just took a fall. Stumbled over a break in the pavement, I think. Should have been paying more attention. This gentleman," he gestured at John, "was kind enough to help me up. I thought I might buy him a cup of coffee as a 'thank you'."

Her expression was skeptical as her eyes swept him from head to toe. If she had doubts about his explanation however, she kept them to herself, gesturing toward the rear of the diner. "You might want to take one of the booths in the back. Seating's a little more comfortable and it's quieter. Most of the late-nighters tuck in up front. There's a restroom just off to the left. I'll give you a few extra minutes before I come back to take your order."

Harold managed a nod. 'Kyle' was more gracious. "We appreciate it," he said warmly, offering a slightly flirtatious wink. 

She grinned, motioned them toward the back room, then retreated to the working side of the counter, chattering amiably as she offered refills or pitched desert and the daily special to those customers already seated at the stools. 

Eyes scanning for surveillance devices, Harold noted one, a vintage model mounted on the wall holding the plates behind the front counter, focused on the old-fashioned cash register. The steady green light above the lens indicated it was in active mode. If they were lucky, it was only feeding to an on-site recording device.

It was a reminder of the need to stay in character. Trying to keep his limp to a minimum, Harold led the way toward the booths the waitress had suggested. He was relieved to see that the windows that exposed the front section of the diner transitioned into a solid wall for the back area. Feeling a little less like they were bugs under the microscope, he gestured with a wave of his hand toward the restroom. John paused, then nodded and continued on to select a booth. 

Opening the door marked 'MEN', Harold found a small, single stall room with a sink, towel dispenser, and mirror. And a lock on the door, which he flipped into position as soon as the panel snicked shut behind him. 

**************************************************************

Harold caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and quickly looked away. It was clear why the waitress had been dubious about his 'just took a fall' story. His hair was sticking out in odd directions, a bit mashed on one side. The wire frames on his glasses were still bent despite his earlier effort to straighten them. The knees of his dark pants were visibly damp with an oily sheen. His coat was a mess. Not even the dark blue color hid the stains from whatever he'd landed on and sat in, especially on the sleeves where he'd caught his balance. 

Setting the computer bag on the floor, he pulled his wallet out of the coat and slid it into his pants pocket. Face set in a moue of distaste, he shirked out of the coat, folded it inside out and placed it on the floor next to his bag without further examination. He started to straighten his v-neck sweater, but the sight of his dirty, scraped hands had him stepping to the sink instead. The water was tepid and the foam soap from the dispenser made the scratches and nicks on his palms sting, but he persevered until he felt his hands were acceptably clean. 

Dampening a paper towel, he removed his glasses and set them on the sink, then patted and wiped at his face and neck. Using the same towel, he gingerly leaned down and swiped at his shoes. The pull of sore stomach muscles as he straightened decided him against trying to attempt any further repairs that would require more bending and twisting. He dumped the used towel into the trash can. Wetting his hands again, he brushed his fingers through his hair hoping to tame it into submission. When he'd at least evened out the short spikes, he pulled another towel from the dispenser and dried his hands before tackling the task of trying to straighten his glasses into their proper shape. 

During the entire time, he'd forced the anxiety knotting his stomach into standby mode and focused on the mundane activity of cleaning up. He'd intentionally avoided any longer looks into the mirror than were absolutely necessary. 

Now, sliding his glasses into place and giving them a final tweak to adjust them properly, he finally stared at his reflection, trying to settle into the role he needed to play. 

Unlike John, he couldn't change much of his body language. He was stuck with his fused neck and limp. Nor could he do much with a different hairstyle, although his new cut was shorter on the top than he used to wear it. Clothing was an easy cosmetic change. He missed the bespoke suits that had been a sort of armor, a barrier to protect his personal space. Now he wore button down oxford shirts, khakis or dark chinos matched with a loose fitting v-neck or crew neck sweater. A tie only for work. No bright colors. His new persona was mostly attitude and behavior. Quiet. Unassuming. Average. As little eye contact as he could get away with. As invisible and forgettable as possible. His biggest challenge was language-- he constantly had to remind himself that the average person did not use multi-syllable words that required a thesaurus. They used slang and run-on sentences, not formal structure. He spoke as little as possible to avoid those mistakes. 

Harold closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He knew how to do this. He had lived inside multiple aliases for years. He just needed to get his thoughts and emotions in order. He exhaled slowly, trying to release the fears and anxiety he'd been holding. Instead of calming him as he'd hoped, the action left him feeling old and tired. He leaned into the edge of the sink, fighting a growing sense of lethargy. Blearily he wondered when he had ever felt this exhausted.

And then he remembered...

**************************************************************

_Their escape from the killing zone of the rooftop had been a silent, desperate journey. Traversing back alleys and side streets. Avoiding the crowds that were still filling the main avenues as order tried to reassert itself in the advent of the power coming back on, fearful that the blood staining Harold's suit jacket would attract attention and create a delay they couldn't afford. John on high alert, more dangerous than Harold had ever seen him. Hauling Harold with him as he backtracked to ensure they were safe from pursuit, seemingly reluctant to let the older man out of his sight for even a moment. Bear ranging ahead, then behind, his actions mirroring John's protectiveness._

_They zigged and zagged their way for what felt like miles, John with his weapon ready in one hand, his other gripping Harold's good arm to urge him along. John sending Bear on point, shifting Harold behind him, gun clutched and cradled in both hands as they edged around a corner, Harold simply trying to stay upright and cloaked in the shadow of their protection. John taking advantage of the sound of breaking glass as thieves looted a store nearby to shatter the front driver's side window of a car abandoned during the blackout. Ushering Harold into the backseat. Bear wedging himself into the space at Harold's feet. Hot-wiring the vehicle in seconds._

_By the time they had reached the safety of the Library, Harold had been too exhausted, too horrified by the turn events had taken to form words, let alone utter them. The short hours of sleep he'd been experiencing for months, the disastrous night in D.C., the long week in hiding when doubt and uncertainty had plagued any attempt to close his eyes, the strain and guilt of not being able to keep Grace safe, his fears for his friends' safety once he'd placed himself in Decima's hands, the need to keep alert and wary during the verbal jousting matches with Greer, the helplessness he'd felt from the minute Peter Collier had slid a black hood over his head to the firing of the shot that he had been sure would end his life--it had all taken a toll that Harold barely had the resources to pay._

_He'd been only nominally aware when John dressed his wound. Whether out of respect for Harold's oblivious state, his focus on treating the injury, his own obvious fatigue, or a combination of them all, John had remained quiet throughout the procedure, breaking the silence only as he levered Harold upright in his chair._

_Harold had surfaced from his fugue to find John straightening his shirt over the bandages and draping his suit jacket over his shoulders._

_The Library, which he had been certain he would never see again, had felt so safe--his computers humming, Bear stretched out on his bed, John at his shoulder, the comment about having Shaw take a closer look at Harold's wound later a reassurance that there was a future still to be had no matter how bleak things appeared. Harold had felt an immense sense of relief. Buoyed by a perverse sense of optimism he had offered a rather sardonic viewpoint of Reese's career choice. John's playfully insulting response had tipped them further toward normalcy._

_And then they'd received the call from Miss Groves._

_The Library was compromised. They had to get out. Disappear._

In the near-panicked flurry of gathering up their new identities and destroying their old ones, there had barely been time to shut down his system and grab John's 'go' bag. No time to fill each other in on what had transpired while they were apart. No time to plan. No time to explain. Only time to say words that further separated them. 

Once again, no time to say what really mattered. 

Now he had the chance, although it had to be buried within a casual conversation between two 'strangers'. 

And even if he couldn't find a way to say what he wanted to say, the opportunity to spend even a few minutes with John--risky as it was--was something he couldn't pass up.

Harold pushed the enervating fatigue away with an act of will. He smoothed his sweater, adjusted his glasses once more. Gripping the edge of the sink with one hand, he bent down and gathered up his bag and coat. His own 'mask' was firmly in place by the time he straightened up. With a final glance to the mirror, he turned to the door, unlocked it and went to join John.

**************************************************************

John had chosen a booth nearly all the way to the rear of the room. He was already seated, angled a little sideways, one long leg stretching slightly into the aisle. While the position gave him a clear view of the front entrance--and the back door just behind and to his left was well within Reese's peripheral vision--Harold was struck again by how John's new persona had eclipsed his old one. 

John Reese would have been surreptitiously scanning the room, gaze sharp, alert for any hint of trouble. 'Kyle Sanders' slouched slightly, shoulders relaxed. His eyes were soft and friendly as they focused on their waitress who, despite the promised delay, had beaten Harold to their booth.

Relaxed was a good look on him, Harold admitted to himself. 

He took the opportunity to examine his old partner more closely as he limped down the aisle to join him. The soft, warm light of the diner's back room banished the shadows that had always seemed to cloak John in the past. The overcoat he wore was a medium gray, not the stark black he'd preferred for haunting the night. What Harold could see of the suit jacket underneath was an understated navy blue. Still without a tie, John's shirt, open at the collar was a pale slate gray, not the blinding white 'the man in the suit' had favored. A short, precisely trimmed goatee had replaced the scruffy stubble which had frequently adorned John's face. There was more silver in the dark hair, but the change to a slightly longer style softened the sharp edges of his features, fostering the illusion of business man over ex-military. 

There were a few more faint lines around the mouth and the eyes, stress 'tells' that Harold knew he also bore. Overall though, John/Kyle looked like a man without a care in the world. 

Harold slid awkwardly into the booth, ignoring the twinges from his bad hip and leg. He tucked his folded coat and battered computer bag close to his side on the seat. 

John was already in the process of placing his order with their waitress. "Just something to drink, I think." 

He glanced at Harold who confirmed the choice with a nod, sore stomach muscles clenching. Food had lost its appeal on the best of days, and today was far from one of those. 

"Hot tea," John continued. "Sencha Green if you have it. One sugar." At Harold's start of surprise, John casually explained, "Someone I used to know drank it all the time. I've grown to appreciate it."

Harold strove for composure and placed his own request. "Coffee. Black. One sugar, one cream." 

John's right eyebrow twitched upward just a fraction as she bustled away.

"I still have some work to do when I get home," Harold found himself responding defensively. There was no way he was going to admit he drank coffee now as a way to honor John's prior preference for the beverage. "I'll need the caffeine."

John studied him for a moment, his bland expression unreadable, just a slight tightening around the mouth. "Seems a little late to be crunching numbers." 

Harold froze in the process of unwrapping his setting of silverware. Raised a wary gaze.

John nodded toward the battered computer bag.

Harold suddenly felt flustered. "Yes...yes it is. But in my line of work there are always a lot of details to track down." Even as the words spilled out of his mouth, he mentally cringed. This was a conversational path he did not want to tread. He offered what he hoped would be a seen as a casual wave of the hand as he set his silverware down. "Not enough hours in the day. A common enough complaint."

John nodded, the stranger's mask still in place, long fingers deftly unwrapping his own utensils. An awkward, unbalanced silence stretched between them; John's posture loose and seemingly at ease, Harold tense, fingers teasing out the wrinkles in his napkin with jerky strokes. Images from another time, another diner, flashed through Harold's mind. There had been an imbalance between them then too, neither sure of the other, both wary and cautious. Ironic that events had brought them full circle. 

Harold pushed the memories away and shifted slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position on the padded bench seat. He was definitely feeling the after-effects of the assault, his aching body growing stiffer by the moment.

If John noticed his fidgeting, he gave no sign.

The tension abated slightly when the waitress quickly returned with their drinks, both men seemingly focused on the simple tasks of preparing their beverages. Harold had just raised his cup to his lips for a taste when John picked up the conversation.

"So what kind of work do you do?"

Harold was proud that he'd covered his reaction to the question fairly well as the coffee in his cup only sloshed mildly. He'd given John the opening after all. Not surprising he'd walked right through it. 

Stalling for time, Harold blew gently across the surface of the liquid, took a tentative sip, then a longer one. A dozen misdirections had immediately sprung to mind, but as he carefully placed his cup back down on its saucer, he knew he had to offer up the truth. John probably knew it anyway, and truth _was_ what he'd promised the man a lifetime ago. 

"I work at one of the local hospitals. Medical records and billing." 

John took a sip of his own tea. "Sounds like that would be a pretty 8 to 5 kind of schedule."

Despite the anxiety churning in his stomach, Harold almost smiled. Poke and prod. John had always been very good at interrogation.

"You'd think so. It's essentially electronic paper pushing," Harold said, trying for a dismissive tone. "The physicians' offices and insurance carriers want everything in a digital format now. We're a bit short staffed at the moment so things pile up quickly. There are always extra shifts to pick up. Plus we're in the process of digitizing older paper records for one of the HMOs. That takes a lot of time. It's pretty tedious work."

He picked up his coffee again, hesitated. 

"When it comes to saving a life or losing one though, having the right information at your fingertips can make all the difference," he added quietly, eyeing John over the edge of the cup. "I've...missed crucial details in the past. Didn't read between the lines. People suffered because of it. I'm exceedingly careful now with everything I do. I don't want to put anyone else at risk."

While he'd been talking, Harold had noted that John's gaze had slid away from his several times, casually monitoring the entrance to the restaurant and the patrons at the front counter. Now John's full attention slammed back to Harold with a force that nearly rocked him in his seat. Sorrow and denial flashed in the younger man's eyes. 

Sorrow he understood, but Harold knew that he carried a burden of responsibility for much of the mess they were in. He looked away. Setting his cup down, he shrugged. "I'm used to long hours in front of the keyboard, so it's no trouble putting in extra time at home." 

He dared a glance at John, found him staring down into his tea, expression unreadable. 

"And of course, I make double for overtime," Harold added, trying desperately to lighten the mood. They had a cover to maintain. 

"Any little bit extra helps in this economy," John responded with a nod, his voice even, no trace of real emotion. "Lots of people struggling these days. Everyone is stretched pretty thin. Sometimes it leads them to make bad decisions. Puts them in situations they have no business being in. Being _careful_ isn't always enough."

Harold knew he was being scolded. It was clear John had strong suspicions about why he had been in that alley. But Harold wasn't going to admit to anything that confirmed them, or apologize for the choice he'd made that had put him there. 

"We all have to deal with the consequences of our own actions." He patted the computer bag at his side. "In any case, I appreciate your...assistance. There are few 'Good' Samaritans on the streets these days." 

The 'old' John became visible for just a fraction of a second before he slid back into Kyle's loose, affable persona. "Just glad I was in the neighborhood."

"You didn't say what brought you down here so late at night." Harold was pleased with the casual tone he'd managed. It was appropriate conversation for two 'strangers', but it also gave him the opportunity to remove himself from the hot-seat and put John on the defensive for a few minutes.

John rewarded his query with a wide, easy smile--very much in character--and a sparkle in his eyes suggesting that he'd read Harold's intentions.

"I'm in real estate," he responded, reaching into an inner pocket of his coat to withdraw a business card case. "Commercial as well as residential." He plucked out a card and held it out toward Harold. 

Crisp white card stock. The name and logo of a well-known firm embossed in one corner. Kyle Sanders name, address, email, office and cell phone numbers all detailed precisely.

It was a plausible opening for a means of contact. Realtors gave their cards away like candy. If it was discovered in his possession, few would give it a second glance. 

Harold ached to take it.

He kept his hands folded in his lap.

John laid the card on the table between them. 

"My job takes me all over Manhattan and the surrounding boroughs," he continued smoothly. "Real estate sales is a fairly cut-throat business, so I like to keep an eye out for opportunities someone else might not see. For example, a lot of clients are becoming more interested in the safety of the neighborhoods where they're considering making a purchase or renting. I have a contact in the NYPD who keeps me in the loop on crime statistics, the placement of new CCTV cameras, changes in police staffing in certain areas. I still like to check things out for my own peace of mind. Particularly at night, since things often look and feel different in the dark. Realtors tend to work practically a 24/7 schedule anyway.

"It's taken some work to get established, but it's starting to pay off. Most of what I've handled so far would be considered small change by my competition. I'm ready to take on some bigger challenges.

"Right now I'm in the process of checking out properties for a new client I hope to land," John went on, his voice a little softer, serious. "He likes the unusual. Prefers older places with character, but modern enough to handle the demands of today's technology. Good storage. Solid built-in book cases."

Harold's eyes narrowed. 

"He's a very private person, so security is a must. He also wants to be able to come and go without being the object of gossip by a lot of nosy neighbors. A _sanctuary trompe l'oeil_ is how he would put it."

Harold felt his stomach clench. 

"And it needs to be pet friendly."

A part of Harold had to admire how deftly John had managed to impart so much critical information under the guise of a simple explanation. 

Another part quailed at what that information implied. 

Their waitress chose that moment to wander back to them, checking to see if they needed a refill. Harold managed a stiff nod, but his thoughts were caught by a wash of memories. 

**************************************************************

_Hurrying down the Library steps, not knowing if they even had time to make it out the door into the tunnel. John's voice harsh and low, arguing for Harold to let him accompany him. Harold unwilling to let John take that risk, murmuring back that it was time to take the slim chance they'd been given to walk away. John countering with a temporary separation. Harold holding to the position that they'd fought the battle, but lost the war. John insisting he didn't believe Harold was ready to give up. Harold reminding him sharply that he'd started their endeavor and he would be the one to end it._

_Urging John to take Bear._

_John adamant the dog would go with him._

_Not a word spoken as they'd parted on the street a few blocks later. Just a single look back._

He'd shut John down with harsh words. He'd slid into his new identity. Stayed quiet. Lived a small life. 

Listened, but remained silent as his co-workers traded stories in the break room about the loss of life from the Post Office explosion, the chaos that had resulted from the blackout, the changes in their lives that a 'heightened need' for security was generating, due to the latest evidence of domestic terrorism. 

He'd walked past ringing public telephones, ignored the odd codes that occasionally flashed across his computer screen at work. 

Battled his own demons at night in the dark when sleep came fitfully. Tried to come to terms with the decisions he'd made, the actions he'd taken or urged others to take, waded through the uncertainty he felt in regard to his own creation. 

He'd wondered daily about the lives of the other six, concerned for their safety. 

Hoped for John's continued well-being most of all.

Then he'd watched the fallout from Samaritan coming online, grieving silently as the published body count of supposed 'terrorists' mounted. Knew there was so much more happening that never made the news. 

Decided, as he had the day the Towers had fallen, that he couldn't sit on the sidelines. His best might not be good enough, but it would be something. He couldn't, wouldn't quit the fight. Not and live with himself.

He'd answered the next time The Machine had sent a new Number. 

Which had placed him in the alley. 

Where the last person he had been expecting had found him.

And now John was offering him an opening, setting the stage for their new identities to strike up an acquaintance. Letting Harold know that he had both means and opportunity to be out and about in the City once again, day or night, theoretically no questions asked. His connection inside the NYPD was most probably Detective Fusco, and John had established through his new job a legitimate reason to be in regular contact with him. John's veiled hints suggested that he suspected that The Machine was still active, despite Samaritan's visibly growing influence, and that Harold was trying to work the Numbers again. John's appearance in the alley proved that he had been keeping tabs on him. 

And he was actively looking for a location that would serve as new headquarters. Implying he was ready to take point again, to resume their partnership. 

All the things that Harold wanted, at the cost of the one thing he wouldn't risk. 

**************************************************************

The waitress bustled back, leaving fresh coffee, a new pot of hot water and tea bag. John once again picked up the conversation as if there had been no interruption. 

"You should consider getting a dog." 

Harold looked up at him, eyes wide in surprise. Surely John didn't think... Oh. Of course. John didn't think Harold had gotten rid of Bear, he was remonstrating him for not having the dog with him. 

"For protection," John continued blandly. A pause as he dunked his tea bag, and then, "If you're going to be walking the streets late at night...carrying a wad of cash." 

Face warming, Harold fiddled with his napkin, not meeting John's gaze. "I'm not usually out this late. There was... a problem--"

"A problem." Flat, no inflection. The slightest sharpening of the eyes. 

Harold took a sharp breath, suddenly, irrationally irked. The man had been out of his life for six weeks and he hadn't changed. New identity or not, John Reese was still the pushy ex-operative he'd always been. Always wanting to know Harold's business. He squared his shoulders, the gaze he leveled at John one the defiant Harold Finch of old would have used. 

"Yes. Something I needed to look into before it became a real issue." Harold settled back at bit into the booth's seat, head held high, eyes sharp. "And I do have a dog," he continued, his tone cold and affronted. "A Belgian Malinois. Well trained. He's all the protection I need." 

A flinch from the man across the booth. 

Pain. 

Well controlled, but there just the same. 

John shifted abruptly, straightening his overcoat. Pulling back. Getting ready to disappear. 

Wounded.

Harold was suddenly sick of the whole charade. He was doing it again--letting his own pride and fears determine the outcome. Why was he baiting John? This was the man whose safety and well-being he worried about every day. The man who had stood with, and for him, through three years of adversity. The events that had transpired to separate them hadn't been of John's making. Their parting, not John's choice. The lack of contact since, Harold's fear-based decision. 

Harold leaned forward, eyes downcast, hands cradling his coffee.

"You're right of course," he said quietly, drawing the warmth from the ceramic cup up into his own voice. "I should have taken him with me tonight. But he's been a bit...under the weather lately and I didn't want to stress him further. Bear misses his master. You see, he's not really my dog. He belongs to my old partner...a very good friend who had to leave the City unexpectedly." He raised his head to look John in the eye. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to him."

John's eyes widened slightly, his searching gaze holding Harold's for a long moment. He broke eye contact abruptly, reaching for his drink. Silence hung between them as he took a few swallows. 

"Belgian Malinois," Reese finally murmured gruffly as he placed his cup back down on its saucer. "That's a fair-sized dog. Bear's a good choice for a name."

"I was a bit reluctant to let him get too close when I first met him," Harold continued, pressing John to hear the truth he was trying to convey. "But he quickly became very important to me. I confess, when he's not with me I feel rather lost."

"Always good to have a friend at your back," John said, not looking up. "New York can be a lonely city."

"Yes...yes it can be."

Again, silence between them, a little less tense than moments before. 

"This partner you mentioned," John finally offered hesitantly, still not meeting Harold's gaze. "Any chance you two might get back together?" 

Harold traced the handle of his coffee cup, not sure how to answer. 

There were so many threats stacked against them. 

Samaritan: They knew so little about its capabilities. Harold had to assume that its functions were at least equal to The Machine. Which meant eyes and ears everywhere. They were already pushing the odds against them higher with this 'chance' meeting. Even if by some miracle they didn't draw its notice in their new identities, it was just a matter of time before Samaritan's self-diagnostics detected the anomaly in seven of its servers, traced the problem, and fixed it. They'd be exposed. As an open system, Samaritan was a weapon. Decima could sell its surveillance and targeting capabilities to the highest bidder. If it was acting autonomously? The world could end in flames. 

Greer: Harold held no illusions that he had moved off the top of Greer's personal hit list. John's was undoubtedly the next name after his. Greer had been clear he considered Harold a threat, had given the kill order up on the rooftop. John's intervention had stymied that attempt, but Greer wasn't a man to quit before a job was done. He had his own personal army. And he held Samaritan's reins.

Control: She had protected him during the Trial, but only because he was of no use to her dead. Harold didn't believe she was happy with having to go through Decima to get the Relevant Numbers, but she would grit her teeth and bear it if it offered her the option to keep the Nation safe. At least until she had her own game ready to put on the board. Harold had stood at the wrong end of her gun once before. He knew she had no compunction against killing if it would get her what she wanted. Anyone with him or near him would be collateral damage. 

The Government: Two of the most influential men on Capitol Hill, both of whom had their own agendas and the resources to advance them, knew his face. One of them knew John's. Both either suspected or knew what he'd created. Both were currently aligned with Decima.

The Machine: His own creation, now a potential threat. Wonderful and terrible, just as he'd admitted to Arthur Claypool. The Machine's autonomous functions had been expanding since practically Day 1. Not even Harold knew what it was fully capable of now. If it had reached a cognitive state where it actually had its own plan? It had found a way to help them survive, yet it had also positioned them to become assassins. Harold had no idea if it was still communicating with Root, but it had sent him a Number. It appeared to still need its human assets. However as John would attest, assets were meant to be used and then 'burned' if they presented a danger or no longer served a purpose. Harold had programmed The Machine to protect itself. In a battle for its own survival, would they become a risk it opted to dispose of? 

The Irrelevant Numbers: They never knew whether a Number would be a victim or a perpetrator. That uncertainty had always contained its own dangers. Now probability suggested that at some point the Number they'd be working would also be on Samaritan's watch list. Discovery was guaranteed. 

Harold had made the decision to risk his own life again. He was already a dead man several times over. Realistically, John's long-term prognosis wasn't much better, but if remaining separated, if keeping him away from working the Numbers could buy him a few more weeks? Maybe even another year? More?

"I'm not sure that would be wise," Harold responded. "Many of the reasons he left still exist." 

"Many. That suggests at least some of the obstacles have been dealt with," John countered.

"Unfortunately the most critical 'obstacles' as you call them still remain. The ones that have been addressed have been more of a...personal nature." 

Now John did look up, questions in his eyes.

"I had...well, if I were a religious man, you'd say I had a crisis of faith. I had...doubts. Not about our partnership or the work we were doing," Harold added quickly. "My concerns stemmed from something I had been responsible for years earlier."

Harold took a sip of his coffee, ordering his thoughts. During the long shifts at his new job when the numbing sameness of the tasks he was processing had left with him with too much time to think, Harold had mentally rehearsed the conversation he would have with John if they ever had a chance to meet again. He had a whole list of things that he should have told Reese over the course of their partnership--facts, secrets, fears, apologies. But this 'conversation within a conversation' they'd been stumbling through didn't fit the format he'd prepared. 

Still, there were things that needed to be said, and this might be the last opportunity. They could both be dead--really dead--tomorrow. John deserved the truth. 

He deserved to know why Harold had ended things in the Library the way he had. 

"When I first started the...project...that ultimately became the basis for our endeavor, I was confident. I thought that I'd foreseen a way to...keep things under control. It quickly became obvious that would be more complicated than I'd envisioned. I couldn't predict...let's just say that there was early evidence that the project was taking on a life of its own."

A raised eyebrow from John, but no comment. Harold fiddled with his napkin for a moment before continuing.

"It...worried me. There was only one person that I could have discussed things with at the time, and even he...well, I've always been a bit ahead of the curve when it comes to technology. I'm not sure I could have articulated my concerns at any rate. They were...nebulous."

Harold paused, met John's gaze. "And what I was creating was important. Necessary." 

A small nod from Reese in agreement, no hesitation.

"There were others working on their own designs. I could have abandoned my efforts. Let someone else take the lead." Harold's gaze flickered away for a moment. He drew a deep breath, then raised his eyes to meet John's once more. "But I was worried about the direction their efforts would take them. Because of my concerns, I had built in the strongest safeguards I could think of. I wasn't sure...couldn't depend on anyone else working on a similar project to do the same.

"Ultimately, I did the best I could and sent it off to be used. It was a tool, and it functioned well. What I had forgotten to factor in was the human element in the equation." Harold shook his head grimly, remembering the fallout that had changed his life and taken the lives of others.

"The business my partner and I were involved with was a sideline of a development stemming from my original project. If I were to qualify it in financial terms, it was a risky investment. Destined to be short term, with questionable gains. I would have preferred to handle it myself, but it quickly became obvious that I couldn't. So I found someone with the skill set I needed. I fear I treated him more like an employee than a partner or a friend, at least in our early stages. Past experiences had made me...reluctant to share more information about our operation than was required." Harold held John's gaze. "Something I sincerely regret now."

John shifted slightly in his seat, sliding one long leg forward to rest against one of Harold's under the table. A silent message of reassurance. Harold wasn't certain he deserved it. 

"My partner knew there were significant risks involved when he signed on. They didn't seem to faze him. We had some success, some failures. Some nearly unrecoverable losses."

John's eyes darkened and Harold knew he was remembering Joss Carter's death. 

"Things changed...became more complicated as other competitors entered the field. The concerns I'd had about aspects of my original project resurfaced. I should have shared them with him then, but we were so busy putting out one fire after another...

"Still, I should have found a way. Perhaps if I had..." Harold shook his head regretfully.

"In the course of one of our last major...deals, we discovered we'd been...manipulated into a very difficult position. The stakes were incredibly high and there was no 'right' choice that didn't come with its own share of ugly consequences. I insisted we take the high road. Walk away. My partner...my friend, he understood what needed to be done to rectify the situation. Was prepared to do it. But he followed my wishes, instead. He said he trusted me.

"But he shouldn't have," Harold said bitterly. "We were facing a classic moral dilemma. The 'good of the many' type of scenario. But at that moment I wasn't thinking of just the big picture. The action he would have taken would have...damaged my friend in ways that I didn't think he'd ever recover from. That _we'd_ never recover from. And I...I took the manipulation personally. Saw it as a betrayal, a realization of every fear I'd--"

Harold closed his eyes, took a breath, held it, regained his composure. 

"I was ready to walk away. And in fact I did. Disappeared for a week. Left my partner and another associate high and dry." 

"You di--" John started to object, but Harold stopped him with a decisive shake of his head. 

"During the week I was gone, I took a good look at our situation. The outlook was less than favorable. I set plans in motion that I'd hoped would assure the best future I could for my partner, my associates, other...people who might get caught in the backwash if we went under."

Harold sighed regretfully. "Plans I'd had ready for years--something else I neglected to share. Few of those came to fruition. My partner had reminded me that just as there are consequences in acting, there are also consequences in _not_ acting. And there were. What followed was a disaster. We were forced out of business."

Harold reached for his coffee, took a sip. It was barely lukewarm, bitter. He swallowed it anyway. The taste matched the last admission he needed to make. 

"My partner didn't want to call it quits. But the risk...I couldn't...wouldn't ask that of him. He had always wondered about the possibility of living a 'conventional' life. Having a family. Children. It was the opportunity for him to have a fresh start..." Harold glanced down. "I just...I wanted him to have the chance.

"When we parted, there were harsh words between us. Intentional on my part. To push him away."

Reese's leg nudged against his, urging Harold to look up. 'Kyle's' nonchalant expression was gone. On John's face was the same mixture of compassion and understanding that Reese had worn on the day he'd met Harold in the park across from Grace Hendricks' townhouse. 

John cocked his head to the side, studied Harold intently for a moment. "So this crisis of faith. Your personal obstacle. You've...resolved it." 

"To an extent," Harold admitted. "Consequences follow intent, no matter how noble. I'm...learning to live with that knowledge. I still have reservations. However, larger events have made me reevaluate my...level of responsibility. And having the opportunity to talk to you has been...helpful."

Harold ducked his head, painfully aware how awkward his last words sounded.

"Do you really think he didn't know?"

Surprised, throat tight with something that felt dangerously like hope, Harold raised his head just far enough to peer over the frames of his glasses. John wasn't looking at him. His attention seemed absorbed by refreshing his tea from the still steaming pot. 

"Not everyone is meant for a conventional life," John's soft low voice intoned. "Some people are meant to do the things no one else can, so _others_ can live it."

Then very deliberately, he slid his cup of tea in front of Harold and took possession of the coffee. 

Harold stared at the cup just inches from his fingertips. John's offer was literally 'on the table.' All he had to do was reach out for it. 

"Life is about more than just surviving," Reese murmured. "Some things...some _people_ are worth the risk."

Harold looked up, his eyes locking with John's. With movements as deliberate as his partner's had been, he closed both hands around the cup. "Yes...Yes they are."

They sat and talked a bit longer, chatting about the weather, what park Harold favored to walk his dog, found they agreed that New York cabbies were just as crazy as ever. Below their surface conversation, an easy comfort, Kyle's persona sliding back into place but with just enough of the 'old' John Reese under it that Harold knew he could adapt to the change.

Finally, John started to take a sip of the coffee, grimaced and put the cup down, shifting it toward the end of the booth for their waitress to retrieve.

"So," he said, expression and tone thoughtful but casual, as if he were pondering something inconsequential, "if you and this partner were to go back into business...I imagine it would be difficult, starting over again from scratch."

Harold took a sip of the tea. It too was getting cold, but still tasted wonderful. He offered a small, slightly mischievous smile. "Not as difficult as you might think. I have...access to a wide network of options with my current employer. And there are...resources...that were put aside. From our old business. For safekeeping. Just in case."

John uttered a soft huff of amusement. "I'm not surprised. You strike me as a man who's used to thinking several steps ahead."

"And my old partner is very capable." Harold took another drink, enjoying the 'taste' of long absent friends. "He's stubborn enough to have been working toward the possibility of resuming operations all along. I'd hazard to say that he could probably hit the ground running."

Their waitress made her final return trip, dropping their check on the table and indicating they could pay at the front register when they were ready to leave. Harold pulled out his wallet, but before he could open it, John reached for the bill.

"Let me get this. I can write if off on my expense account." He pushed Kyle Sanders business card forward. 

Harold picked up the card and tucked it into the still folded wallet with an appreciative nod. John was already 'on point'--using a $100 bill to pay for a five-dollar-plus-tip check would have been memorable.

"You should do me a favor and let me take you home," John said as he slid easily to his feet. 

Harold's exit from the booth wasn't accomplished with nearly as much grace. Sitting for so long had stiffened old injuries and new. 

"And how would that be a favor to you?" he asked after he'd finally levered himself to his feet. Snagging the computer bag, he draped his coat over it, then slid the strap onto his left shoulder, wincing slightly at the pull of sore stomach and back muscles. 

"I don't have a dog. I'd like to meet yours."

Harold hesitated, then nodded. They should begin as they meant to go on. "I'm sure he'd appreciate the company. And perhaps you could tell me a bit more about this property you've been looking for. It sounds intriguing."

John flashed him a grin and they headed to the front of the diner. As John stepped up to the register, exchanging a few compliments for the service with their waitress and paying their bill, Harold waited by the door. 

Actions hidden by the folds of his coat, Finch casually slid his hand into the outer pocket of the computer bag. His fingers closed around a small innocuous looking device. As John stepped away from the cash register he tapped one end of the mechanism. Lights in the diner dimmed for a moment, then came back up. 

John glanced at him, then turned slightly. The green 'active' light on the security camera on the wall had gone dark. A small smirk tipped Reese's mouth as he turned back to Harold.

Harold shrugged. He still had a few tricks left.

They headed out into the night. 

************  
Attributions:

Title: “We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.” --Kurt Vonnegut

_trompe-l'œil:_ French; something that misleads or deceives the senses

“Begin as you mean to go on, and go on as you began."-- Charles H. Spurgeon

Additional quotes and references from various POI episodes.

**Author's Note:**

> Like many, I'm speculating on what happened to our heros after they were forced to leave the Library and part ways. This is my take on one possibility, from Harold's POV. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers all apply, none of the characters are mine, any liberties taken are also mine, etc., etc. 
> 
> My thanks to JinkyO and Tee, who were kind enough to to act as beta-readers for this story. Any remaining errors in grammar or syntax are mine.


End file.
